


Seismic Shifts and the Quicksand That Takes Your Family Away

by Corvid_Knight



Series: Mutantstuck [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: (assuming i did the code right), Chatlogs, Gen, Mentioned Suicide Attempt, Mutantstuck, that is a dumbass title huh, this is where it all goes south
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-22 15:15:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22518127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvid_Knight/pseuds/Corvid_Knight
Summary: "We," you tell him, keeping your voice level but not even trying to filter the stress and anger out of it, "are getting on a plane to New York tomorrow." And he's already shaking his head. You already know you're going to have to make a choice and ohgodthis is going to hurt so bad when you dare let yourself feel it. "We're flying up there and helping our sisters through this shit."Reaux calls with an emergency that Roxanne's in the middle of. D's ready to try to handle it, Bro...isn't.
Series: Mutantstuck [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1309922
Comments: 18
Kudos: 76





	Seismic Shifts and the Quicksand That Takes Your Family Away

Reaux called you first. Of course she did. _You're_ her twin, she'd come to you before she turned to anyone else—but you turn your phone off when you know you'll be arguing about the minutae of filming. She called you first, you didn't fucking pick up, so she left you a terse and unilluminating voicemail— _Roxanne's fallen apart, I'm booking you tickets on the next flight to New York_ —and moved on to the last available family member. 

Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if you'd gotten around to listening to the voicemail sooner...but no, as always you only get around to checking your messages in the elevator up to the apartment, which gives you a total of maybe two and a half minutes before you get to walk in the door and confront the fallout from whatever the hell she told Bro. 

"Bro?" Ah, fuck. The apartment's way too quiet, for one thing. The fact that the door wasn't even all the way shut only really registers when you hear it latch behind you—the crack across the inside is pretty damn obvious when you look back at it over your shoulder, though. "Oh...fuck. _Fuck._ " 

Where the hell is he? More to the point, where the hell are the _kids_? Their room is the first you check, and you find it untouched by the shit your brother's done—aside from where he's obviously punched the door, you find one of your framed albums knocked off the wall, a stack of carefully sorted DVDs scattered across the floor, a wet stain on the carpet where he's thrown a drink or something—but _also_ empty of kids. 

God _fucking_ dammit you cannot panic right now. No. Nope. 

"Bro?" You shouldn't be, but you're getting mad. Sure, he's got a history of taking things badly, you _know_ he's always had issues with how he reacts to shit and he's never agreed to talk to anyone about it, but this shit's not right, not when you're not here to take the kids and keep them safe. He should know better than this. Fuck! "Bro—" 

The bathroom door slams open as you step towards it, startling you into silence. Well, there's your brother anyway—he just stands there in the bathroom door, body way too still and face way too blank behind his shades. What the hell did Reaux tell him? 

"Bro." 

He shakes himself slightly at the sound of his name. For a second you think he's going to close the door again, just lock himself in the bathroom, strip down and go for what you're guess ing would be his third or fourth shower since you've been gone with how obviously upset he is. But no, he just crosses his arms and leans agains the doorframe. Stupid fucking shades; if he actually had to meet your eyes maybe you'd have less of a disadvantage here. 

"She call you?" His voice is _deliberately_ calm. You hate that shit. 

"I got a voicemail. Where the fuck are Dirk 'n Dave?" 

"Dunno." Oh that is _not_ what you want to hear. You don't think you've ever felt fear and anger this strong in response to a single word in your life; how the _fuck_ can he just stand there and say that? Maybe some of it shows on your face or in your body language, because he keeps talking. "Jeff was here—told him to take 'em home, guess he did." 

Oh. Okay. Okay. Breathe, D. Wait, no, not fucking okay! "You guess he did? You fucking _guess_? They're kids, you stupid motherfuck, our kids—" 

"They're fuckin' _fine_!" All that feigned calmness evaporates as he snarls and takes a step toward you. God help you, but you can't help but step back. "Roxanne is the goddamn problem, did you not fuckin' _listen_?" 

Shit. So this is about her. She's had bad spells before, but nothing's ever fucked him up this badly. "Reaux hates leaving voicemails and you know it—is Rox okay? What—" 

"She'll fuckin' survive." He grimaces and stalks past you, heading for the kitchen if you had to guess. You follow behind him at what doesn't quite feel like enough distance to be safe. It really isn't, as you find out when he turns to pace back the other way and nearly slams into you. He doesn't even _look_ at you as he brushes past. "I don't give a shit either way." 

"What the fuck?" So she's not okay. She's definitely not okay, and whatever's happened's left him more furious than you've ever seen him. There's no way you're going to get any kind of straight story out of him; you pull out your phone and open a new chatbox with your twin. 

technicolorGladiator (TG) started pestering talismanicTrouvaille (TT)!

TG: explanation of what the hell's going on in ten words or less   
TG: go 

TT: D, I can't. Not right now. 

TG: bro's having a goddamn meltdown and i'm running absolutely fuckin blind    
TG: we don't really have a choice here okay 

TT: ...oh.    
TT: Do you want the full story, or only why he's disowning Roxanne and I? 

TG: jesus    
TG: you knew he was acting like this? 

TT: Please remember that I was on the phone with him.    
TT: I. Shouldn't have called him. I should have waited for you.    
TT: Is it appropriate to apologize? 

TG: right now let's put that on the back burner sis    
TG: what happened? 

TT: Ten words or less?    
TT: Roxanne didn't quite manage to kill herself. According to the note she wrote, she's been hearing thoughts for the last year or so. 

TG: fuck    
TG: she's been hearing voices? 

TT: Thoughts. Not voices.    
TT: She's sure she's a telepath, and. All the evidence supports it. 

TG: fuck fuck fuck    
TG: are you okay? 

TT: I'm drunk.    
TT: I shouldn't have told him. I should have known he was going to be like this. 

TG: no blaming yourself   
TG: he would've figured it out pretty damn quick anyway    
TG: what time did you get us tickets for? 

TT: Your flight leaves at 3:45 tomorrow. 

TG: alright i can work with that    
TG: i'm gonna run damage control here    
TG: toss the rest of the bottle out okay? 

TT: The one I was working on is gone, but I'll put the corkscrew away. Fair enough? 

TG: yeah   
TG: kiss the lil ones for me okay? i figure they need it 

TT: They're not the only ones.   
TT: Don't let him talk you into not coming, D. 

TG: not a fuckin chance 

TT: Still. 

talismanicTrouvaille disconnected!

You let out a breath and stow your phone back in your pocket, running the new info through your head and trying to figure out how fast you can process and deal with it. Roxanne tried to kill herself: fucked up, horrifying, you're not even going to make a start on figuring out how you feel about that right now. Reaux's having a breakdown: understandable, but you still wish it wasn't happening, or that you were there with her instead of here. 

The only thing you _have_ to fully mentally confront in order to deal with the shitshow at hand is, well. The telepathy thing. The _mutant_ thing, if you're going to call it what it is—you guess there's all kinds of reasons it might be something else, Reaux might be wrong, Roxanne might just have some disorder that you've all missed so far...but no. You're not gonna deny shit that your twin's certain of like that, you trust her judgement. 

So Roxanne's a telepath. So all that Bro's seeing right now is that she's a mutant. That his sister, his _twin_ , is something that he doesn't even consider to be human. That's _all_ he's seeing right now, and...

Fuck. You already know how this is going to go. 

Gotta try anyway, and hope for something else. "Bro." He's still pacing, never turning to face you. Deliberately not looking at you. " _Bro._ Stop. Fucking. Moving." 

The voice you use is a very specific one—it's the same one you use on the kids to stop them dead before they do shit that'll get them hurt, the one you use on editors who want to cut integral shit from the final print, on groupies who think it'd be neat to touch someone famous and don't bother asking first. It's not something you've ever broken out for your brother before, but it works—he stops nearly halfway through a step, barely catching himself before he stumbles. He doesn't turn towards you once he's steadied himself, but you guess you can work with that. Not like this would be any easier face-to-face. 

"We," you tell him, keeping your voice level but not even trying to filter the stress and anger out of it, "are getting on a plane to New York tomorrow." And he's already shaking his head. You already know you're going to have to make a choice and oh _god_ this is going to hurt so bad when you dare let yourself feel it. "We're flying up there and helping our sisters through this shit." 

" _Sister._ It ain't _sisters,_ I got _one._ " 

"Bro—" 

"If fuckin' that. Roxanne ain't even _human._ " 

You want to hit him so fucking bad right now. "That's your fucking _twin_ , you dumbass." 

He doesn't give you response to that, at least not a verbal one—you see his shoulders tense up as he shakes his head, the way his breathing speeds up a little bit. Not good. None of this is good. 

"I'm leaving tomorrow," you tell him. It's _so_ fucking hard to keep your voice from shaking. "I'm packing now. You need to get your shit together." 

"My shit's fine." It's close to a growl, and you're actually glad that you're not going to have to pass by him to get to your room—he's not just angry but dangerous now. You've never seen him like this. "I ain't going." 

Yeah. That's what you're afraid of. "Like I said, get your fucking shit together." And you step into your own room and close the door so carefully that it doesn't even latch, and try really hard to not flinch when you hear the apartment door slam a minute later.

* * *

By the time that you get your essentials packed and Dirk's overnight shit rounded up, it's been half an hour; by the time you get to Egbert's, it's been closer to a full one. It should've been maybe a ten minute drive, but you end up having to pull into someone else's driveway more than once, lean over the steering wheel and focus on nothing but your breathing until your vision clears. 

So yeah, it's your fault that by the time you get to talk to Jeff, your brother's already been there and gone. He's taken Dave with him, which means Dirk's still sniffling inconsolably even after twenty minutes of efforts to cheer him up; you spend another twenty minutes holding him and promising him that he's okay, Dave's okay, everything's okay, before he calms down enough that you feel okay leaving him and John alone in the room with a tableful of Legos for at least long enough that you can explain to Jeff what's going on. 

God, you hate crying. It feels weird, close to wrong. Even closer when you're trying not to do it in front of your brother's boyfriend, when Bro's half the catalyst for the waterworks in the first place. That sense of wrongness is just enough for you to keep it in check, right up to the point where you have to admit what you were sure of back when your brother wouldn't look at you across the living room. 

"I can't fix this." Fuck. _Fuck._ Closing your eyes doesn't help, but having them open stings, leaves you with blurred vision. "He—he left, he's not going to show up for the flight out—I can't _not_ go, man, she's my _sister_ , they both are, but he's not gonna—" 

Shit. You're getting loud; Dirk's going to hear from the next room, and you don't think you can face calming him down again, not right now. Shutting your mouth is harder than it should be, and you have to back up that action by covering your mouth with both hands, breathing through your nose and _still_ struggling to keep from hyperventilating. 

Jeff's watched you the whole time, sympathy very obvious on his face and in his brown eyes. Now he leans across the table to put one hand on your shoulder; you can't really help leaning into the contact. Hell, at this point you'll take what you can get to ground yourself on, okay? 

"He's not really angry with you," he tells you, calm and level and in that reassuring tone that instantly takes your panic level down a notch or two. "Ambrose—it takes him a while to think rationally sometimes. He'll come around." 

Okay, you have to lower your hands to speak even if you run the risk of having Dirk hear. "I don't—Jeff, there's no fucking _time_ , I'm leaving tomorrow, unless you think he's gonna stick around and let you be the one to talk sense into him—" 

No. From the pained expression that passes across Jeff's face, you know he's not going to be able to do that. "He's more angry with me than you. I told him—never mind what." 

Fuck. _Fuck._

"He's not coming back." You whisper it, because the alternative would be to scream. Then you lay your arms on the table and put your head on them, hiding your face as Jeff moves from patting your shoulder to rubbing at your back. God, you hope he doesn't give up on that until you get enough tears out to figure out how the hell you're going to get your shit together.

* * *

There's a spare bedroom here, but the bed's small and Dirk's obviously afraid of the shadows the streetlight casts through the curtains, so you go for option two: the couch. It's a foldout, at least, with enough room that curling up under five fuzzy blankets with Dirk snuggled safely against your chest is comfortable enough. Thank god that tonight's one of the rare nights where he falls deeply, limply asleep instead of squirming and waking a dozen times during the night. If you had to worry about him waking up and asking why you're still half in tears...yeah, you're just going to not think about that. 

Not going to sleep much either, apparently. Dammit, you'll be paying for this tomorrow.

* * *

You have to make a stop at the apartment before Jeff can drop you off at the airport—for one thing, you need to grab a couple more things that you're going to need if you spend more than a few days in New York. For another, a part of you is still desparately praying that Bro and Dave will be there. 

Which is fucking _stupid_. It's just gonna hurt more when you have to get on that plane with Dirk. 

Just in case they _are_ here, though, you leave Dirk in the car. He's absorbed with picking his way through a puzzle game with John in the backsteat, so you're not even sure he'll realize you're gone. Gives you a bit more time, if you end up needing it. 

The moment you let yourself in, you know that you won't be needing those few extra minutes. You turned all the lights off when you left last night; the one above the sink in the kitchen's been flipped back on, neatly spotlighting the two suitcases you left under the bed and unpacked last night...and the note lying on the counter directly above them. 

Two more pieces of paper flutter to the floor when you pick it up. Airplane tickets. You leave them for the moment, scanning your brother's familiar spiky handwriting instead. 

_If you seriously think I'm doing this shit, you're fucking delusional. I'll see you and Reaux and the kids in Houston when you come to your senses and get over this stupid shit._

Fuck. 

You guess you were still hoping he'd calm down, but...no. God, if only you had a little more time to talk him around. You could do it, you _know_ you could, but...no. You can't leave your twin on her own any longer than you have already, and you know that he'll never forgive you for making that choice. For abandoning him, as he's going to see it. 

So. You do the only thing you can do—fold the note carefully and slide it into your pocket, deliberately don't even look at the tickets on the floor as you pick up the suitcases and pause only to flick the lights off again on your way out of the apartment. Maybe you'll hire someone to pack up the rest of your stuff and have it shipped to you, but you don't think you'll ever be setting foot in here again.


End file.
